


Dreams and Other Symptoms

by MissLouisa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drinking, M/M, PTSD, Sherlock deals with emotions badly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:57:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 7,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissLouisa/pseuds/MissLouisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wants to have sex. John doesn't.</p>
<p>And no, he won't explain why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes, John wonders if it irritates Sherlock that he can't fix the nightmares like he fixed the limp. Sometimes John wonders if Sherlock pities him, and that's why he pretends not to notice that some nights, John opts not to sleep at all.

The nightmares aren't always of the incident that got him invalided, but they're always from his years in the army. He thought for a while that all he was doing by following Sherlock around was creating new content for his nightmares, but that never happened. He's never had a dream about Jim Moriarty, and he finds that surprises him. Nor the Golem, or any of the other dangerous situations he's found himself in. It's always been Afghanistan, battles that had left him riddled with scars, or guilt, or both.

Last night, he dreamt about the Afghan girl he couldn't save, and woke shaking. Deep down, John thinks that his subconscious is growing crueler over time, his nightmares more frequent.

Although it has been a while since he dreamt of the weeks leaving up to waking up in an army hospital, which is something to be grateful for.

It's a few weeks after that dream that John decides to stop sleeping. The nightmares are getting ever more common, and he can't talk about it with his therapist. After all, he has no intention of revealing the lie he convinced his doctor to write in his discharge papers.

One day, he knows, he's going to have to tell Sherlock what happened, and why every time there's a case with a torture victim, he bows out. But he's not intending on it being soon, even as their relationship strengthens and a hint of a deadline looms. Because John hasn't got laid since he got sent home, and so far he's convinced Sherlock that it's, well, that it's Sherlock's fault. But eventually this is going to become more of an obstacle, and it's enough that he can't spend the night with someone because of the nightmares, but he can't even get changed in front of Sherlock, and he doesn't have an excuse.

So of course, when Sherlock pushes him against a wall and kisses him, finally, after months of dancing around it, it's a mixture of elation and trepidation that John feels.

Because this means that one day soon, they're going to have to have a conversation. John half wishes it'd never happened at all, that he'd never fallen in love with a beautiful madman. As it is, he sorely regrets how dull his reactions are after a week of next to no sleep.

It takes a minute or two for his brain to catch up with his lips, for him to push Sherlock away. They blink at each other, barely separated, before Sherlock opens his mouth.

"Your body language -" he starts, but John holds up a hand before he gets in full flow.

"I know. I just can't, right now."

Sherlock narrows his eyes, and John wonders if maybe he'll figure it out. "Why?" He asks, instead, and John is a little surprised that he has the decency to ask.

"It's... I'm not..." John struggles to articulate himself. "I can't sleep with you," comes out in a big rush, and Sherlock blinks.

"Okay," he says. "We won't, then."

But he's scrutinizing John, and John knows that he's become a puzzle more than anything else.

It's a little too awkward to go back to kissing, John still leaning against the wall, trying not to think about the sudden phantom pain in his leg. Sherlock's still looming over him, still trying to figure it out, and John is suddenly exhausted. All he wants is his bed, but he finds he doesn't have the energy to escape from Sherlock's gaze.

That, and he can't quite face the prospect of a nightmare.

"Is the issue the sleeping, or the having sex?" Sherlock asks.

John sighs. He should have known he'd have more questions to answer before he could leave. "Both."

Sherlock frowns. Clearly that doesn't match up with whatever conclusions he's already drawn.

"I don't want to talk about it right now," John says, and Sherlock nods, clearly still deep in thought.

"You haven't been sleeping," Sherlock announces. John rolls his eyes.

"I don't think you have to be two inches from me to tell that," he says, and Sherlock glances at the space between them.

"I'm making you uncomfortable," he says.

"Yes," John says.

Sherlock frowns, and takes a step back. He gestures towards the stairs, and John sighs. He has a feeling he's being sent to bed, and he goes with trepidation.

He can't remember the last time he had a night of dreamless sleep, and he has a feeling Sherlock will be observing, somehow. There's no chance of escaping downstairs for a coffee, he realises, and if he wakes up gasping for air he'll just have to cope, pretend it's not happening.

Try and get back to sleep.

The thought is almost funny, if it weren't so true.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock's oddly quiet for the following week - he mentions neither the kiss or the following rejection. John had been warned that Sherlock sometimes doesn't talk for days, but this is a new kind of speculative quiet, as if Sherlock is deducing inaudibly.

John is a little afraid of what will happen when Sherlock decides to open his mouth again.

"You won't sleep beside me because of the nightmares," Sherlock states on a quiet Tuesday afternoon.

"Yes," John says.

"You could have sex with me and then leave," Sherlock points out, in what John can only assume is his helpful voice.

"Sherlock-" John starts, but Sherlock huffs loudly.

"Why won't you have sex with me?"

John can't help but smile at the way Sherlock sounds plaintive, like a child.

"You can't just ask that," John says. Sherlock narrows his eyes.

"This is one of those social etiquette things."

"Yes."

"Will you just tell me why you won't have sex with me?"

"No, Sherlock. I can't."

"So we're never having sex, then."

"Looks that way."

"Oh for god's sake, John."

John raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. He's reasonably certain Sherlock's never met the stubborn side of him before, but he's not going to bow to pressure. At least, not until he finds the right words.

Sherlock turns and leaves, ever dramatic. John sighs, and wonders if ever anything in his life is even going to get a little more sane. The thing is - it's not that he's embarrassed. He's a little traumatised, his therapist can attest to that, but he's not ashamed of it.

He just doesn't want to be subject to the full force of Sherlock's probable utter lack of understanding. Sherlock, John thinks, will need to know every detail of John's ordeal, will want to find out why his discharge papers told a lie.

Sherlock will force John to relive it, and John does that enough in his nightmares.

Sherlock, in the wake of John stonewalling him, apparently renews his vow of silence. Until, of course, he comes up with another line of questioning.

"You haven't had sex since you got back from Afghanistan."

John blinks at him. "That's not the point."

"Have you ever been with a man before?"

John blushes. "I have."

"I thought so," he pauses. "You and Sarah didn't have sex, nor have you made any attempt to pick up a one night stand."

John doesn't say anything. To be honest, his recent dry spell has a dozen different reasons behind it. The first and foremost being Sherlock, and the second being the fact that he can't have Sherlock. The rest are all tied in with nightmares and scars and why maybe, nobody deserves to deal with John when he can't get his head screwed on right.

"Is it the act of sex itself? PTSD can often manifest in a change in libido, but you are attracted to me."

John wonders how many theories Sherlock is going to try before he finds one that fits.

"Body image issues? No - you may have put on weight of late, but you're not a vain man."

"Can you just leave it?"

"No," Sherlock says, and John wonders why on earth he's still friends with this insufferable man.

"I'm not going to have sex with you," John says. Before he knows it Sherlock is staring at him, deducing him.

Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it again. "You're not certain of that. In fact, you think eventually you'll give in. But you don't want to make me work for it - if you did, you probably wouldn't answer my questions at all. You want to have sex with me, you see it as an almost inevitable conclusion, and yet you fight it. For, apparently, no good reason."

"You never got the no means no talk, then?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Attempts to be humourous are not welcome in this context, John."

"Leave it alone, Sherlock. I have my reasons. I don't want to talk about them."

But John's pretty sure Sherlock heard the unspoken _yet_ , at the end of that sentence. But he's not sure Sherlock knows how to wait for it.


	3. Chapter 3

"You asked Lestrade why I wouldn't have sex with you," John spits, slamming the door behind him as he walks into 221b.

Sherlock looks up. "You've had too much to drink," he says.

"No, Sherlock," John says, which is a lie, because he has. "I am just utterly furious at you."

"Lestrade has more relationship experience than me."

John opens his mouth, and shuts it again. He's furious, he can feel his pulse slamming in his neck, but he doesn't know what to say to that.

"I'm not going to have sex with you, I don't want to talk about why, it wouldn't be an issue if you didn't keep fucking talking about it."

"Why?" Sherlock asks, as John turns away. He spins back around.

Well. He has Sherlock's full attention now. "Because it's not actually anything to do with you."

"As a prospective sexual partner-" Sherlock begins.

"No. You are not a prospective sexual partner, you are barely even my friend right now. Jesus."

"What if I'm worried about you?"

John can't help it - he laughs. Even to his own ears, it sounds bitter, irrational, but he can't keep it in. "You're not worried about me. You're worried about whether or not you're going to get some tail."

"John-"

"No, Sherlock. Not right now."

"I don't just want to get you in bed, John."

"You've seemed pretty single-minded to me." John shuts his eyes. He's tired - He hadn't had a good nights sleep in what feels like forever, and he's drunk and angry and so sick of protecting himself.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "The frequency of your nightmares has increased drastically in the last month. You limp when you go to bed, because you know what's coming. You don't even flirt anymore."

"I had noticed, thanks," John bites back, but he's still uncomfortable with the stark truth of it.

"John-"

"Don't, Sherlock. I'm going to bed."

"You don't want to know what Lestrade said?" Sherlock tries. John just looks at him, blank and exhausted.

"What?"

"He said I should leave you alone. You're good for me, apparently, and I should try my hardest not to drive you away."

John blinks, and chews at his lip.

"Goodnight," he says eventually, and limps upstairs, pain shooting through his leg. It is at least numbed a little by the alcohol, he thinks bitterly.

He never sleeps well after drinking - he knows this, but he always drinks anyway. Because of days like today, beginning with a panic attack and ending with a flaming row, he has to drink.

He's not like Harry - he couldn't function as a drunk, he knows that, but drinking is still a coping mechanism for him. Drinking and adrenaline, his drugs of choice, and the latter doesn't seem to be working so well.

That said, neither does the former, at least not tonight. Sherlock was treating him like he was a puzzle, which John isn't going to appreciate now, or ever. John's not particularly intricate, or even very secretive.

There is, he thinks, a difference between being private and being secretive, and he is firmly in the camp of the former. Perhaps, he thinks, it is time to find a new therapist, someone who can deal with his trust issues rather than just pointing out that they exist.

Perhaps someone who doesn't know him as John of Sherlock-and-John, joined at the hip, probably boning. John isn't embarrassed about his association with Sherlock, far from it, he's just tired of people knowing how he feels, looking him up on the internet, and then pointing out how obvious it is from his blog.

Yes, Sherlock is best friend. Yes, Sherlock is somebody John finds simultaneously ridiculously attractive and incredibly difficult to deal with. But John's never going to have sex with Sherlock. At least, not until he somehow finds an excellent therapist.

And Sherlock learns boundaries. Christ, does Sherlock need to learn some boundaries.


	4. Chapter 4

There is a resentful silence hanging over the flat for days. John hates it, he leaves as often as possible. Let Sherlock stew in his own misery. Their argument had been unexpected, actually - John had had no idea that Sherlock was so desperate to get him in bed he'd seek outside help. 

He'd had no idea that Lestrade thought Sherlock would drive him away, somehow. Apparently Lestrade isn't very observant, because John is clearly head over heels for Sherlock. That much is clear even to John himself. (And John is great at blindly ignoring the obvious.)

As much as John doesn't want to admit it, Sherlock had been oddly vulnerable that night. And yet, it was Sherlock who had said that not having sex would be fine. It was the puzzle aspect to it, John is certain. They could be muddling along, best friends and not-quite-something more, if only John was willing to explain why.

And he's not willing to explain why, and to Sherlock, that's unacceptable. 

The longer their conversations lingered, though, the more vivid his dreams were. John doesn't want to have to explain himself, least of all to Sherlock (who will undoubtedly hear his reasons and declare him an idiot, but privacy is already a foreign concept to Sherlock, so that's not such a blow).

John can't even take his shirt off in front of a mirror, let alone in front of a living, breathing, microscope. A talking microscope, who can ask questions about this scar and that scar and draw conclusions that John doesn't even want to think about.

Occasionally, John considers having a little more faith in Sherlock. But then he remembers Sherlock's reaction to the entire debacle. 

Sherlock starts talking to John again on a Wednesday, about something utterly mundane. John, at least, is grateful for the reprieve. Eventually, though, they start talking about John's issues again. Or, Sherlock starts talking about John's issues.

"I'm sure Mycroft could find you an excellent therapist," Sherlock offers, and John is more than a little confused. Sherlock must be desperate to offer to go to his brother for help.

"I'm sure he'd love to read all of their notes on my afterwards, too," he says, and Sherlock frowns.

"So," he says, "privacy is important. Confidentiality is important."

"Mycroft not knowing anything is important," John points out. Mostly for selfish reasons, but also because he'd hate for anyone to get a black mark on their record on his behalf. (Although he's a bit suspicious that Mycroft already knows about the alterations made to his discharge papers. Mycroft tends to give off a creepy omniscient feeling.)

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "So talk to me. I'm not going to Mycroft."

John rolls his eyes. "You were the one who said it was okay if we didn't have sex."

"You wouldn't tell me why," Sherlock says, and John doesn't even need to look at him to see him pouting. Instead, he stares at the floor, wondering idly which circle of hell he is trapped in.

"You shouldn't need to know," John says gently, and Sherlock makes a frustrated noise. 

"You are the single most important thing in my life, John," he says, in the same tone he uses to de facto explain the state of a marriage. "What were you expecting?"

John's teeth begin to worry at his lip, because he feels like he's tumbling over a precipice. 

"Perhaps," John says, "I should move out."

Sherlock blinks. (John wonders at that, a little. He managed to stun the madman into silence.) It lasts a few seconds, before words start spilling out of his mouth, furious deductions and comments and John can't decide if Sherlock is angry or terrified. 

When Sherlock eventually runs out of steam, ending with a few bitter comments on how boring John's life will be if he left, they stare at each other.

Eventually, John says, "Maybe boring would be better, for a while?" and Sherlock's whole face crumples a little. It lasts only a moment, and John's lucky he caught it at all, but he sees it for what it is.

Sherlock needs John, perhaps not in his bed, but in his life, almost as much as John needs him. 

And that's kind of the undeniable truth - John needs Sherlock because even with the nightmares and the scars and the fact that John is generally a pretty battered example of a man, he's a little more whole now than he was before. 

So John shakes his head, and tells Sherlock that he's staying.


	5. Chapter 5

John is reasonably certain Lestrade can tell something's up, but that doesn't stop him from letting them get elbow deep in a case. Specifically, the case of one murdered teenager. It ends, as always, with a rooftop chase and laughter and it's almost like things are back to normal. It's pissing down with rain and John is so elated because he caught a criminal with the help of his best friend.

That stops when they get back to New Scotland Yard to make their statements and Lestrade insists on lending John a shirt.

"You look frozen, mate," he says, and John doesn't really have much say in the matter. In fairness to Lestrade, John is dripping on the floor of his nice office.

He blushes when a shirt is pressed into his hands and points at the door. Sherlock, who had been quietly contemplating in Lestrade's chair, stands up quite rapidly.

"Something wrong?" He says, sharp as always.

John eyes him, until Lestrade coughs politely. "We'll wait outside, John," he says, and John is grateful that he has a friend who is sane, a friend who _understands._ A friend who knows that Sherlock inspecting the scars from a few years in the army would be an unpleasant experience. 

He tugs at the blinds on the office windows, and removes his shirt, tugging on the one Lestrade gave him. It fits fine, and it's warm, and that's what matters. He's wondering what to do with his wet clothes when Sherlock storms in.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Sherlock says, utterly furious. 

John blinks. 

"You idiot," Sherlock hisses, "your discharge papers said you'd been shot!"

John swallows. "I shut the blinds," he says flatly. "I asked you to leave."

"You were tortured."

"I want my privacy respected, Sherlock. You had no right to-"

"Be worried about my friend?" Sherlock interrupts. 

"Just about whether or not you'll get me in bed."

"For the last time, John, are you really so naive to think that's all I care about?"

"You clearly couldn't give a shit about what I want, what I have actually asked you for. I didn't want to talk about it, Sherlock. I still don't."

John's pretty sure Sherlock's staring at him but he can't bear to look as he picks up his sodden shirt. 

"I'm going to give my statement and get a cab so I can be somewhere where you are not," he says, through his teeth. 

Sherlock stays silent, and John is finally grateful that he has at least some sense of where the line was, and how far he has crossed it. 

Lestrade looks at him quizzically, and checks if he's okay, but when John shrugs off the questions (in spite of the fact that he's aware of how thin the walls are), takes his statement without protest.

John goes to the pub, and drinks, alone, until Harry turns up to rescue him. He finds himself idly considering how it had never been this way around before, he'd always been the devoted younger brother, getting Harry out of trouble.

Well, not any more. Now they're on the same level. John drinking away his woes, utterly overdoing it until Harry arrives and takes him back to her flat.

It takes him half an hour before he wonders how she knew to find him, but she's shifty about it when he asks.

John wonders if that means it's Mycroft, or that John has done enough angry drunken ranting about Sherlock to put her off mentioning him. 

(He's reasonably certain it's the latter, though he wouldn't be surprised if there was CCTV in Lestrade's office that Mycroft had access to.)

Harry lets him sleep in her bed, even though he reeks of alcohol and self loathing, and the following morning, he has a blazing headache.

It is nothing, John thinks, that he doesn't deserve. 

He does feel a little bit miffed that Harry insists on a serious conversation before John is allowed his morning tea. They have words about excessive drinking, and Harry suggests that John talk to Sherlock about whatever it is he's done.

For a while, John considers telling Harry the whole thing. The three weeks of torture until eventually his captors left him for dead. The near constant interrogations, never being fed or allowed to sleep.

He thinks, though, that it might be too much for Harry to handle. It's too much for _John_ to handle, but he does it anyway. The last thing he wants to do is have a conversation about it, because he knows his brain. He knows it'll lead to more nightmares, worse symptoms.

He knows that his therapist thinks talking about getting shot will trigger a flashback in John. She may not have all the facts, but she knows John pretty well. She's probably right. 

Eventually, Harry insists he leave and get some fresh air. John's pretty sure that he's being gently evicted - Harry's not going to volunteer her bed two nights in a row, but she's not going to be rude about it, either.

What it means, though, is he has to go back to 221b. He has to face Sherlock. 

Sherlock, who will deduce his hangover and his fury the moment he walks through the door.

Sherlock, who might not notice the fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. This chapter was kind of a killer to write.  
> Thanks so much for the lovely comments, it really spurs me on to write more.  
> (It's looking like, workload permitting, I'll be updating on Sundays and Thursdays)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: There are descriptions of torture within this chapter. Not particularly graphic, but they're there. Also, descriptions of a panic attack.

Sherlock doesn't say anything when John walks through the door, which surprises John more than a little. He just stares at John, who is still wearing Lestrade's shirt and probably smells like the alcohol he's sweating off.

Sherlock opens his mouth, but John waves a hand. "I'm going to take a shower. We can talk after I feel human again."

Sherlock closes his mouth, and John leaves the room.

When he returns, Sherlock is plucking irritably at his violin, but there's a cup of tea by his chair and John feels a rush of gratitude towards Sherlock.

Now that he feels a little more human, he can appreciate that Sherlock is too. He sips his tea, and Sherlock opens his mouth.

"You were tortured," he says, and John nods.

"It's not really up for discussion, Sherlock. I know you'd like to know - well, everything, but I can't talk about it."

"I'm not going to judge you," Sherlock says, and John finds himself wondering why Sherlock thinks that's the problem.

John sighs. "You still want to know all of the details, though, and I can't - it's not..." John trails off. He doesn't really know how to say it.

Sherlock doesn't say anything.

"What do you want?" John says eventually, because he's not sure if either of them have a clue.

Sherlock frowns. "I thought I made that clear."

"Sex, then. Which is, by the way, still off the table."

"I would prefer a bed," Sherlock says drily, and John smiles. It feels like he's been punched in the chest by the sheer relief of it - Sherlock's not that upset about the not-having-sex thing.

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it again. It's a gesture John is entirely unused to on Sherlock.

"You already know what happened, don't you?" John says quietly, after a silence that's a beat too long. "You deduced it from a single glance at me."

Sherlock nods. John flinches. He takes a deep breath.

"Tell me what you know," he says, and surprise flits across Sherlock's face because apparently John has managed to do something unpredictable again.

Sherlock blinks, and then starts talking.

"It was a series of techniques," he starts, "you were shot, in the shoulder, but that in itself wasn't so bad. It was what they did afterwards. Some of the scarring is from branding, though most from a knife. They wouldn't let the shoulder wound close up, but they cleaned it regularly - they didn't, actually, want to kill you. There was undoubtedly some psychological torture, too, but that doesn't leave marks. The scars on your back and arms imply they had access to a Judas chair, but they used it intermittently. You were in captivity for two to three weeks, at a guess."

John blinks. "That was - well done," he says, a little shakily. He can feel his chest getting tight, and the world tilts slightly.

So that was what the chair with all the spikes in it had been called, he found himself thinking, it was a Judas chair. His breath is coming in harsh gasps and at some point, he ended up on the floor, Sherlock's hand at his back.

"John," Sherlock says insistently. "John, you're having a panic attack, I need you to breathe, John."

Distantly, John wonders how Sherlock knows to cope with people suffering from panic attacks. He's never seemed to have much sympathy before.

It takes a while for John to calm down - he's not sure exactly how long, but Sherlock has at some point wrapped himself around him, and John is grateful for the warmth he provides.

"Sherlock?" He says, eventually.

"John." Sherlock says stiffly, his breath hot against John's ear.

"I think you need to let go of me now," John says quietly, and they separate. John knows that he shouldn't feel embarrassed, that it's a perfectly normal reaction under the circumstances.

But he can't quite look Sherlock in the eye.

"John," Sherlock says, still insistent. "I don't want to have sex with you."

John huffs a laugh. "Well -"

"John," Sherlock repeats. It's starting to get annoying. "I don't mind if you don't want to talk about it, but it might help."

John blinks. Sherlock is still behind him, but they're not close any more, so he twists to face him. "My therapist doesn't know."

"You're an idiot," Sherlock tells him, and John laughs.

"My discharge papers didn't mention the torture, and I didn't want to cause any trouble."

"I wasn't trying to cause trouble," Sherlock sniffs, but John stares him down.

"Yes," he says slowly. "You were."

Sherlock smiles. "You wouldn't tell me."

"You wouldn't respect my privacy."

Sherlock inclines his head. "I accept that I made an error in judgement."

John raises an eyebrow, momentarily stunned. 

"I shouldn't have- pressured you," Sherlock says, as if he's struggling with the words.

John nods, slowly. "I don't think," he says, dragging the words out, knowing he's facing his impending doom. "I don't think we would've been the best idea anyway."

Sherlock frowns. "That's inherently false."

"You never switch off. Having sex with you would be like having sex with a robot. Who made spreadsheets."

"I wouldn't make spreadsheets-"

"You would think them, though. You would be charting my process, determining what factors affected the- the-"

Sherlock waits for him to finish.

"The style of our encounters," John says, not without blushing.

Sherlock has a wicked smirk on his face. John finds himself aching to wipe it off. 

"You don't need to be self conscious about your scars," he says, and John blinks, a little puzzled.

"Yes," he says, fighting hard not to grit his teeth, "I do. They require an explanation."

"So explain them."

John snorts derisively. "I _can't._ "

Sherlock scrutinizes him. "Try Lestrade," he offers, "He already knows something is up."

"No, Sherlock," he says, and waits for a rebuttal.

Sherlock doesn't say a word, just looks at him a little strangely and picks up their mugs to wash up.

John thinks that might be the strangest part of the whole thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. So. Wow. Sherlock and John finally had an actual conversation about this stuff.
> 
> (But of course I couldn't resist inserting a little humour.)
> 
> I don't know if any of you are Brits from the South West, but we've been dealing with some flooding which may mean I get some time off school to write the next chapter a little earlier.
> 
> No promises, though. 
> 
> Again, I appreciate all of your feedback, it is wonderful, and I'm sorry I haven't had a chance to reply to them. Life is kind of hectic.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I'm really sorry for the ridiculous delay on this one, and also I'm really sorry if it's awful because I have been taking a bit of a break from writing for the last few weeks, and it's unbeta'd.
> 
> Incidentally, warnings for some sort of depressive thought patterns, vague descriptions of a panic attack (I should have warned for last chapter too, sorry about that.)

John wakes up screaming.

This is... this is _new_.

He's gasping for air when he hears a soft knock at the door, a shuffle of feet outside. He doesn't say anything, he can't breathe, let alone speak, so Sherlock comes in anyway.

John supposes he's grateful Sherlock even knocked at all, and the thought grounds him a little.

"John," Sherlock says quietly. "You had a nightmare. Breathe, John."

John's eyes are wide, and he can't, won't, blink. His shoulder hurts so much, and he can still feel the knife buried into it. There are tears streaming down his face, but he can't move to wipe them. He feels utterly rigid, stalled.

John's not worthy of anyone's attention - of that much he is clear. Sherlock is by his side, staring at him, and John wonders what he's waiting for. Some sign that John is okay, maybe, but he won't get one.

John doesn't go back to sleep after a nightmare, that's the rule, that's always been the rule. And this was the worst one yet, at least since he'd met Sherlock.

That's why, when John can breathe again, a little unsteadily but the air is finally, at last, reaching his lungs, he swings his legs out from under the covers and makes to go downstairs and have a coffee. Sherlock puts his hand on his chest, stopping him.

"You're not going back to sleep," Sherlock says, and it's a question-statement-"you're an idiot" remark that only Sherlock can make.

"No," John says. "I don't think I want to."

Sherlock frowns, an unhappy twist to his mouth. "You're still going to try and make your shift in the morning. You're going to do everything you would normally do and ignore the fact that you woke up screaming, you're obviously in pain, and you need to talk to someone."

John shakes his head, trying to decide if he's angry or just _exhausted_. "What I choose to do is none of your business."

"It is, John, because you're my friend. You won't sleep tonight and you won't sleep tomorrow and you're not going to do anything to try and fix any of that."

"I _can't_. It's not an option. In case you haven't figured it out, talking to _you_ was the whole reason I woke up screaming."

John has to fight really hard not to tack _asshole_ onto the end of that sentence. He brushes off Sherlock's hand, and stands. He begins groping around for his cane, feeling Sherlock's accusatory glare on him. Sherlock flicks his bedside lamp on just as John gets a grip on the cane, and the light shocks him enough that he drops it.

He swears, loudly.

"Just fuck off, Sherlock, you're not helping anything," he says, as he gets to his knees to reach for it.

Sherlock surprises John by leaving, silently. He closes the door behind him ( _as if that'll help anything_ , John thinks bitterly, remembering the days when he had some semblance of privacy) and doesn't even try for the last word.

All of a sudden, the fight goes out of John. He doesn't _want_ to go downstairs and shuffle around and make coffee. He doesn't want to be awake for the next 18 hours, or 24, or 48. He knows this routine, of nightmares and not sleeping, and just going and going until he collapses, and quite suddenly he knows what it's doing to Sherlock. Because he's seen Sherlock working on a case for 72 hours straight, not sleeping, barely eating, and that was hard.

But he can't sleep. He knows he'll wake up at the very least shaking, at worst, screaming. He knows he won't get to work in the morning if he goes to sleep - he'll get a total of three hours of broken sleep, slipping in and out of awful dreams, and trying to pretend he's okay will be harder, even, than admitting he's not and trying to stay awake.

John, at last, has reached the end of his tether. He's fucking sick of all of it. He doesn't want to have nightmares, he doesn't want to deal with any of this. It's not his fault he was tortured, not his fault he ended up this way.

It is a little his fault he can't talk to anyone about it, he knows - but the lies on his discharge papers were his only chance at escaping the truth, for a little while, and he's grateful for the short peace he gave them.

If only he'd known that not long afterwards, he'd end up under the watchful eyes of Sherlock Holmes, the least peaceful place of all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um, I was kind of hit by my johnlockchallenges gift exchange thing, immediately followed by lots of school stress and my driving test and then christmassy things and woah. Life got kind of heavy and then, as an added bonus, writers' block happened. So I'm really sorry about the delay, I'm normally really good at keeping fics updated regularly. Honest.
> 
> Next chapter will happen I don't know when because Christmassy things and revision and generally life keeps happening at me and I'm not in a great place right now so, I don't know how much writing I will be doing. But I will try not to let it be as long a gap this time!
> 
> Evilteddybear, I hope this chapter clears up any confusion about John's motives from last time around (Sherlock's will come later).
> 
> As always, I am open to constructive criticism! And I generally treasure any and all comments, though I always go "oh I should reply to that" and then _never get around to it_
> 
> Sorry, again. Hope you enjoyed!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly smaller gap than last time. I'll get better, I promise.  
> This has gone seriously off prompt now, I think, and is mostly about John working through his many many issues. But we'll get there! Thanks to my beta, Data, for putting up with me shouting at him on twitter until he read it for me
> 
> Trigger warning: This chapter contains mild descriptions of torture, flashbacks and a panic attack.

John wonders, sometimes, what would have happened if Sherlock had never entered his life. He'd still have the limp full time, of course, and the limp had frustrated the hell out of him.

But he wonders, sometimes, if perhaps he'd have been better off. 

He knows Sherlock appreciates his help, occasionally - in distracting Lestrade when he's doing stupid things, in saving his life when he's doing stupid things. But sometimes, John wonders, if it's all really worth it.

Some days John feels like Sherlock is the best thing that ever happened to him, but not recently. The nightmares have enveloped him, and his tremor is back. He catches Sherlock frowning at it, sometimes, as if wondering how adventurous he needs to be to cure John, once and for all. 

It's that or kill him, John thinks. But him out of his misery. 

John's seen a lot of awful things, more than most, he knows. But some days, he's surrounded by people who've seen bad things, people like Lestrade and Sherlock and Donovan, and that makes it ache a little less.

Until, of course, they're dealing with a torture victim. 

Usually, he bows out of those cases. The ones where they find a body, usually, in a room that stinks of sewage and gore. He can't cope with that. But today he doesn't realise where he's being taken until it's too late, and then when he's in there, when the stench is overwhelming him, he can feel Sherlock's eyes on him.

Perhaps, John thinks, this is some absurd kind of test. So he kneels, by the body, and is about to begin his medical examination when he feels a hand on his shoulder, and suddenly he's back there, in Afghanistan, kneeling with his hands tied behind his back, a hand on his shoulder, and a knife twisting, burning pain. There's voices speaking in Pashto, but the pain is deafening and overwhelming and driving all sensible thought from his mind. 

It doesn't last long, but John is gasping, and Donovan is staring.

John is being led away from the body, from the room that smells like faeces and blood and he still can't breathe.

He's aware, distantly, that his name is being repeated, over and over and over again. There's hands, cool, on either side of his face, and suddenly he's staring into Sherlock's eyes. 

"He needs to sit down, Sherlock," Lestrade says, but John is leaning against a wall and he'd rather not move at the minute. He wonders what he looks like, to have caused all this concern - if he said anything, if he screamed. 

His shoulder _aches._

He wonders if he'd be allowed a little privacy, if he asked for it, but he thinks the look on Sherlock's face means that he's not allowed to be alone. 

"What happened?" He asks, through ragged breaths.

Sherlock looks at Lestrade, askance, his face still close to John's. "You were too pale," he says, and John frowns, because that can't be it, can't be all of it. Donovan and Anderson haven't followed them, John's grateful to note, and he doesn't know what else to say, so he just focuses on breathing and breathing and he's almost got enough air now, when Sherlock tells him they're going home.

"What about the case?"

Sherlock doesn't say anything, just frowns. "You're not well," he says. 

John blinks, but doesn't respond. Sherlock's looking at him like he's done something unexpectedly stupid, though, so he imagines he'll get an explanation.

"I'm not working this case," Sherlock says. "It's not mine any more."

John still doesn't get it, and he's sure he's missing something important, but it doesn't make sense. The work comes first for Sherlock, it always has, and there's no reason to change that now.

"What I want to know," Sherlock says, with bite in his voice, "is why you sat next to that body like you were going to examine it?"

"I was doing what I always do," John says, and Sherlock nods, slowly.

"You're an idiot," Sherlock says, and John can't help but smile at the familiar refrain.

Because the thing is, the thing is, things are so much better with Sherlock around. Without Sherlock, he wouldn't have days like today, maybe. But he'd also have panic attacks and nightmares constantly, and maybe he's bruised and battered and tired of life, but Sherlock still gives him a rush that can keep him going, for a little bit, maybe.

It's worth it, John decides. Even if he has no sex life to speak of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading, comments bring me joy, constructive criticism is always welcome.
> 
> Also, next chapter, we may have some actual relationship development
> 
> I'm shocked too


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, ridiculously sorry for the delay but a levels are like slow, quiet murder, and I've had three exams this week.
> 
> Unbeta'd, and probably awful.

John can't help running Sherlock's words through his head. The fond, concerned refrain: "You're an idiot."

John finds himself wondering what it means that he's become Sherlock's idiot. He kind of likes it, likes that he's found his place here. He doesn't feel worthless any more - he doesn't really feel like he has to hide his battle scars.

He's still self conscious, he still can't bear the thought of anyone, least of all Sherlock, seeing him naked.

But perhaps, he considers, he's ready to move to the next stage.

When Sherlock comes home that day, John doesn't behave any differently. He knows he's giving off signals that Sherlock is definitely picking up on, because he's Sherlock, but to be honest, John has no idea what signals he's giving off. 

Sherlock eyes him.

"You slept well," he acknowledges.

John shrugs. "Thinking about cutting down on my caffeine intake," he says, with a half smile. 

Sherlock quirks a brow. "When's your shift?" 

"I've got the week off," John says. "Unless somebody goes on sick leave."

"Tea, then?"

John nods, and returns to his book. He just feels - normal. Like he's something approaching okay, again. It's a good feeling.

Sherlock, oddly, is not bouncing off the walls. He doesn't have a case - they finished one yesterday, with no chase or anything. Once they figured out who the guy was and confronted him, he'd turned himself in.

John couldn't tell if Sherlock appreciated that or was annoyed at the lack of chase. John had missed the adrenaline rush, himself, but he was pretty sure it didn't have the same appeal to Sherlock. The puzzle was Sherlock's appeal, first, last, and always.

Sherlock passes him a cup of tea, and John can't help but wonder a little at the domesticity of it all. It's really, overwhelmingly, nice. Safe. Sensible.

He feels like he should hate it.

"Sherlock-" he starts, but then realises he has no idea how to really _have_ this conversation.

Sherlock waits.

"You don't want to have sex with me," John blurts, remembering the last conversation they'd had about this. Not the best starter, admittedly.

"It's not a lack of interest, John, it's a matter of priorities."

"Priorities?"

"You're far more important than any triviality of the body."

John nods, slowly, because yeah, he can see where Sherlock is coming from.

Being with, being friends with Sherlock, is far more important than any physical thing between them. That doesn't mean he's going to deny himself it if he has the option.

"If it was an option, though, would you?"

Sherlock scrutinises him, and John is sure he knows what's really being asked.

"Angelo's?" Sherlock asks. "We'll take it slowly."

John nods, because yes, Sherlock has given him exactly what he wanted without him even having to ask.

For a madman, he has remarkably good instincts. 

Two days later, John has booked an appointment with his therapist.

He's going to be honest this time, he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! I'm aware that this is a bit of a switch around as last chapter John was in a pretty awful state, but I feel like things are drawing to a close now. I feel like Sherlock is making John see sense and vice versa.
> 
> As such, this is the penultimate chapter, and the next chapter will be an epilogue. Where we pretend Reichenbach didn't happen, because I've already inflicted enough pain on my poor John.


	10. Epilogue

It's been six months, and John finds himself staring up at the ceiling in Sherlock's room wondering how on earth they made it this far. The therapy had helped, but Sherlock - amazingly, Sherlock, had let John set the limits. Had let John choose when and in what situations Sherlock could see him.

Sherlock had helped John be able to look in the mirror. It was something John had hated that he struggled with, in all honesty; hated that what had happened to him had taken over his life so completely, but and yet he couldn't even bear to see the after effects.

It aches a little inside to think that John had once been so convinced that Sherlock was entirely selfish. (Although John can't deny that Sherlock reaps the rewards of John being less self conscious).

John is pretty convinced that he and Sherlock aren't going to be a Happily Ever After story. (They had too much danger in their lives to make any kind of promise to do with that), but it's nice that the most stable thing in his entire world, really, is another human being. 

Sherlock is still an enigma. Inexplicable in his passing flights of interest (there was a week where he was convinced that knowing how birds responding to certain stimulus would help him solve crimes twice as fast), but predictable in so many other ways. 

John loves him. He hasn't told Sherlock yet, but he does.

He's sure Sherlock is at least vaguely aware (although, John acknowledges, Sherlock is not prone to displays of most emotions, least of all love), but he wants to tell him. He wants to prove it.

Part of it is gratitude. John had dug himself into a whole, and Sherlock had pulled him out of that, and if that didn't make him the best human being John had ever met, he doesn't know what else would. 

The other part is this pure overwhelming certainty that even if he and Sherlock aren't a happily ever after story, they could try to be. 

Which is how John decides he's going to propose. It's not complicated or sophisticated (although the hopeless romantic deep down inside John wishes that it was), but it's simple and it's sweet.

And Sherlock says yes, which is the important part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks.
> 
> Thanks for following my fic. I'm /still/ really sorry about how ridiculously infrequent my updates are.
> 
> If you're in the Teen Wolf fandom, I'm starting to write for that, so keep an eye out. 
> 
> Thanks again, and I hoped you enjoyed!


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